


stranger miracles

by plutoandpersephone



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Clothed Blowjobs, Clothed Sex, Coming Untouched, First Kiss, First Time, Lingerie, M/M, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 08:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19989160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone
Summary: Mr Connor Stern teaches maths at Detroit High. In the new academic year, Mr Hank Anderson - a new English teacher - arrives. It doesn't take long for Connor to develop a crush.Originally posted as a fic thread on twitter.





	stranger miracles

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted as a Choose Your Own Adventure style fic thread on Twitter, using polls to guide the character's choices. If you're curious about the polls that were taken and other paths that could have been, you can find the thread [here.](https://twitter.com/andpersephone/status/1129044136340992000) Enjoy!

the fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion  
of the waves—the ships, with men in them  
—what stranger miracles are there?

\- Poem of Perfect Miracles, Walt Whitman

* * *

Detroit High. Tall, grey-white brick in the centre of downtown Detroit, its most recently built extension a plate glass monster sticking out of its side like a shard of mirror, reflecting the light. 

Mr Connor Stern teaches maths, mostly, occasionally covering physics or electronics classes when he’s needed. He’s firm and clever, the kind of teacher who can see through all manner of excuses about absences or missed assignments. But he has a bright side too, a smile that shines sharp for the most dedicated of his students, those who apply themselves properly and work hard. Who recognise and achieve their fullest potential. It’s that which he values over intelligence or learned smarts. 

He has been working at Detroit High for three years when Mr Hank Anderson arrives. Hank has come from another school in the city, a little tougher around the edges than their up and coming establishment. He teaches English.

Mr Anderson arrives with boxes and boxes of dog-eared texts, most of which are not on the school’s curriculum - and never have been. He shrugs when the other teachers ask him about them. 

“Keep them in case a kid is looking for extra credit. Gotta give them a bit more than Animal Farm, you know?” Connor remembers rather enjoying Animal Farm as a teenager. Still, he appreciates Hank’s ethics and feels that they might be rather in line with his own. 

Connor often works late on a Friday grading papers from that day’s in class quiz, a recap of his week’s teaching. On these evenings, Hank coaches a few groups of children who need extra help - D students who he knows can push a C. A students who are capable of an A+. They often cross paths in the hallway on their way out of the darkened school on these late evenings. Hank smiles at Connor, and one night, he offers Connor a lift home. 

“I’m going to dinner with my brother this evening,” Connor explains. Otherwise he would. He imagines Hank in the driver’s seat beside him, blue eyes lit bright by the rush of traffic lights.

Hank smiles. “No worries. Offer’s always there. Have a good weekend.”

Connor hears from these students that Mr Anderson is ‘cool’, ‘kind’. _“He’s mean!” “Only because you never hand in your assignments on time!”_ Katy Park, in Connor’s Wednesday afternoon Calculus, tells him how Mr Anderson found her a book for her to write her end of term paper on. 

“I told Mr Anderson I find reading kind of hard. So it’s mostly pictures, right, like a comic? But the story is super deep - and Mr Anderson said I could-“ she assumes a furrow between her brows in an impression of Hank. “Interpret it anyway i wish.” And she grins. 

Connor thinks often about this story. He also wonders, a little densely, whether he’s getting a crush. Buried beneath his ribs, a soft bright light that he tries desperately not to examine. But it gleams as they cross in the corridor and Hank smiles at him. 

One Friday in November, the heating in the older wing of the school breaks. It’s been shaking for the past few weeks, clattering pipes unable to keep up with the sudden cold snap, frost which twists the playing field grass into hard, icy spikes. 

Connor teaches in the new wing of the building, so his classes are unaffected, but his colleagues talk about dragging old oil heaters through into their classrooms. They leave promptly at three and swear not to come back on Monday unless the heating is fixed. Connor keeps his routine of staying late to mark papers, and he wonders if Hank will continue with his classes. 

At half past four, as he stares across the darkening yard, he can see a light on in Hank’s window. He takes a deep breath, ignores the high beating of his ridiculous heart and heads round to the other side of the school. 

The corridors are cold and dark, eerily empty. The light from Hank’s classroom floods the floor pale yellow. 

“Mr Anderson?” Connor peers around the doorframe. Hank is sitting with four students, two of whom Connor recognises from his Monday morning electronics workshop. One girl has a scarf pulled up to cover her mouth and nose, and he notices that Hank is wearing gloves. 

“Oh, Mr Stern.” That sharp, measured gaze over the top of his reading glasses. 

“Would you like to finish your class in my room? The rest of the maths department is locked up, but if you’d like?”

Hank gives him a smile, but it is one of his students who answers on his behalf. “You’re the best, Mr Stern! It’s fu- really cold in here.” Her voice is muffled through her scarf.

“C’mon then,” Hank says, gathering up his papers. “Thank you, Mr Stern.”

Hank straightens up and Connor is suddenly very aware of how tall he is. He swallows. “No worries.”

So Hank takes the rest of his class in Connor’s classroom. Connor does his best to grade papers, but honestly, Hank’s presence is more than a little distracting. 

“ _Stars, hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires._ ”

Hank’s voice is low and gravelly, his tongue curling sweet and honeyed around the verse. Connor has never had any cause to see Hank teach, and god, what he’s been missing out on. By the end of the hour, Connor has less than half of his papers graded. Hank dismisses his students just before six. They wave gratefully to Connor, and leave.

And suddenly, Hank and Connor are alone. 

“Would you like some tea?” Connor asks, after a beat. 

“I’m more of a coffee man.” Hank says, gathering his books into a rough pile. Connor feels his heart drop.

“But - sure,” Hank grins, and Connor’s heart returns to its rightful place with a sick swoop. “Tea sounds good.”

Connor has a little anteroom at the back of his classroom; mostly filled with spare textbooks, he’s also found enough space for an electric kettle and the facilities to make himself a cup of tea.

He’s never had cause to use more than one mug. He makes them a mug of tea each, and when he returns, Hank is seated, ankle resting at his knee. A well-worn copy of Macbeth spread open on the desk beneath his hand.

“Thanks.” He takes the steaming mug that Connor offers him. “For this. For letting me use your room.”

“They said the heating would be fixed next week.” Connor considers sitting back behind his desk, alongside his half marked papers, but he doesn’t. He sits opposite Hank.

“Would’ve taken four weeks at my old school.” Hank shrugs. 

“Where were you before?” Connor asks.

“Cass’s. Down by the river.” Connor knows the school by reputation, and it must show on his face, because Hank nods. “I know. Kids were tough, but they were great. It was the management I didn’t get along with in the end.”

“Oh?”

“Think I was a bit liberal for them.” Hank takes a sip of his tea. “Didn’t think I should be giving the kids books. Most of them didn’t have enough money for shoes without holes.” He shrugs, and Connor feels his chest clench with something unidentifiable. “Anyway. They don’t seem to mind so much here.”

“No,” Connor shakes his head. “Principal Manfred is very fair.”

Hank nods and a silence settles between them, comfortable and still. “So, did you get all of your papers marked?” Hank asks.

Connor glances over at his desk. “No. I was distracted.” Connor replies, and he watches Hank’s face fall.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve-“

“No!” Connor raises his hands, a little mortified that his confession could have been misconstrued. “Not in a bad way. It was interesting. I never enjoyed English at school,” he explains, and Hank’s expression softens. “I was always better at maths, science. My parents pushed me that way too. But listening to you...” He remembers Hank’s deep voice, the intense blue of his eyes. “I enjoyed that.”

He feels his face colouring a little. Is he really going to make his stupid crush so very obvious?

Hank nods. “Take this, then.”

He’s holding out his copy of Macbeth, edges worn with age and many, many studies. “Are you sure?”

“Sure.” Hank presses the book into Connor’s hand. For a moment, his fingers brush over the back of his wrist. It’s just a moment. But it’s enough. “It’s my copy, there’re notes in there that might help you.” Hank smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the edges in a way that makes Connor’s heart jump into his throat. “If you can read them.”

“Thank you, Hank.”

“No problem.”

After that evening, Hank spends more time in Connor’s room. Once the heating is fixed, he no longer has an excuse to bring students, but apparently he doesn’t need an excuse to spend time with Connor. The fact of that makes Connor nervous, excited, scared. In equal measure. He’ll come in to drink tea, mark his own papers, bring Connor new books. He struggles with Macbeth without Hank’s guidance, but he enjoys Oscar Wilde, Jane Austen. He reads To Kill A Mockingbird in one easy afternoon. It’s a companionable relationship, and Connor feels it like the spooling of a thread, pulling them tighter together. 

Hank begins to lay his hand on Connor’s arm, in the space between his shoulder blades. He leans in close as he shares passages, close enough that Connor can smell him, the warmth of sandalwood on his skin. 

Connor watches the emotion in his face as he reads him through Macduff’s grief in the penultimate act of Macbeth. “ _All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?_ ” His blue eyes are very bright.

“Always gets me, that one.” And he tells Connor about his son, Cole, away at college and about his divorce. Connor speaks a little about his brother, his mother. Hank listens. 

It’s the day before the Christmas holidays begin. Productions completed, final assignments handed in, the school closes its doors a little early. The students run across the snow-covered yard, anxious to make their way towards their cars or waiting lifts and home. 

It’s a Wednesday, so Connor has no papers to grade. Besides, even he’s not mean enough to set quizzes on the last day of term. He packs a few things that he’ll need over the holidays, but he’s not ready to go home just yet. Hank’s classroom light is still on. It lights the ground beneath his window, a day’s worth of footprints pressed into the snow. 

Connor walks over there, hoping that Hank won’t be in a rush to get home. Hank is sitting at his desk when Connor opens the door, a document open on his computer screen and a stack of papers in front of him. It doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere soon. 

Connor perches himself on the edge of one of the tables. Most of Connor colleagues tend to multitask as they speak to him, one eye on their work, one on him. He doesn’t really mind. He does it too.

But not Hank. Hank’s gaze is focused on Connor from the moment he enters the door - sending sparks along the column of his spine. They talk a little about what they are going to do over the holidays: Hank’s son is coming to stay with him for a few days; Connor has plans with his brother. Although he doesn’t divulge further, they mostly involve reruns of old sitcoms and mac ‘n’ cheese from a box. 

“I was hoping to do a bit more reading over the holidays as well. If you’ve got any recommendations?”

Hank nods. “You’re more eager than most of my students.” 

Connor feels his face colour slightly, and Hank tilts his head to one side, considers him. “That’s a good thing.”

The school library is extensive, one of the first places that Hank familiarised himself with when he arrived at the school. Connor knows that he often spends whole lessons in here with his classes, allowing them to select books that take their fancy. The stacks are high and narrow, forcing them to stand closer together in the dark space. Hank stops, suddenly, and Connor damn near walks straight into him. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Connor doesn’t move. The place is silent and empty, and he’s suddenly seized by the desire to do something very reckless. 

Connor has thought often enough about his hand in Hank’s. Hank’s fingers are thick, his palms broad. He imagines that they are a little rough. So just as Hank is reaching for a book on one of the shelves, Connor places his hand over Hank’s. His fingers wrap around Hank’s own. 

“Is this okay?” Connor asks. His voice shakes a little around the edges, terrified that Hank is going to snatch his hand away. But he doesn’t. He twists his fingers so that their palms are pressed together, their fingers coming to intertwine. 

“It’s okay.” Hank steps in a little closer, and Connor’s chest is pressed up against him. “It’s more than okay.”

And before Connor can take a breath, Hank is kissing him. Connor has to tilt his head up to meet Hank’s mouth, the soft press of his lips, the slight scratch of friction from his beard. Hank’s fingers caress the line of Connor’s jaw, down his neck towards his collar.

Their hands stay clasped. When Connor finally pulls away, he feels like he is emerging from beneath the surface of a warm pool. He can smell Hank all around him, taste him on his lips. His heart beats within the cage of his chest like the hammering of a trapped bird. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve been thinking about that.” Connor speaks the words against Hank’s lips. “Been wanting to do that.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank’s thumb is at the bow of Connor’s bottom lip. “How long?”

“All semester. Ever since you arrived.”

“Huh.” The sound is low in Hank’s throat. “Really?”

“I’m not lying.” Connor says, and Hank laughs, dark and sweet. It makes warmth spread through Connor’s chest, coiling tight in the base of his gut.

“Good.” Hank kisses him again. “I couldn’t bear it if you were.”

Connor presses their clasped hands against Hank’s chest. He can feel his heart beating. Hard. Fast. 

“Take me home.” Connor murmurs, his words spoken against the hot skin of Hank’s neck.

“Oh Connor.” Hank’s lips find Connor’s temple, press a kiss there. “I can’t.”

Connor feels his stomach drop, one fast, sickening swoop. “Why not?”

“I would- fuck-” Hank’s hands are at Connor’s hips, and he’s very aware of the fact that his thumbs are working their way under Connor’s belt. “If I could.”

“And why can’t you?” Connor repeats. He can feel the thick line of Hank’s arousal through his slacks. He can’t imagine there being any other end to this evening than coming apart beneath Hank’s heavy hands. 

“Cole. My son?” Hank explains. “He’s coming home tonight. Gotta pick him up from the airport in a few hours.”

“Oh.” Connor tries not to look too disappointed, even though he supposes that’s a legitimate enough excuse. “Okay.”

Hank takes his hands away from Connor’s waist, placing them gently on either side of his jawline.

“What are you doing for New Years?”

He thinks about his brother’s party invitation: smoky rooms filled with downtown party types, shocked comments about his profession, whisky on the rocks.

He thinks about his mother’s dinner: her high ceilinged rooms, her house in the hills. The quiet clink of champagne glasses. 

“I don’t have any plans,” he says. “I’ll probably just stay at home.” Hank nods, his mouth finding Connor’s own again. 

“Will you spend it with me?” Hank asks, his eyes dark.

Heat rushes through Connor again. “God, yes.”

They part quietly in the parking lot, no kisses shared in the wide open space. It’s different out here, away from the private dark of the library stacks.

As they part, Hank presses a stack of books into his hands. “See you soon.”

Connor doesn’t want to wish away his holiday, but the end of the year glows with promise in the back of his mind. Spinning bright like a coin. Catching the light. 

Hank sends him a text on the morning of New Year’s Eve. “Tonight at seven?” and then his address. Connor heart spends the rest of the day in his mouth. 

Connor arrives at Hank’s house at exactly seven, a small package tucked beneath his arm. He’s dressed in a pale blue shirt and grey dress pants, simple and sharp - and beneath them, dark silks pressed close and sweet against his skin. 

When Hank opens the door, Connor’s chest makes that sick, glorious jump that only Hank seems capable of causing in him. 

“Hi.” Connor finds himself suddenly incapable of saying anything clever, cut down by the blue of Hank’s eyes. 

Connor notices the vinyl records in the corner of Hank’s living room, the high bookshelves that are double stacked in places with hardbacks, paperbacks, magazines. The kitchen is open plan and low lit, a huge dog resting on a bed in the corner. 

“Sumo?” Connor asks, remembering something Hank had said a few weeks ago.

“Uh huh.” Hank doesn’t say anything else, but he is suddenly standing very close, close enough that Connor doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“I brought you something,” Connor says, handing Hank the small, rectangular package.

“It’s a bunch of flowers, right?” Hank grins. Connor feels his nerves loosen slightly. 

Hank opens the present, the expression on his face hard to read. Connor wonders if he’s screwed up. “I didn’t know you liked poetry?” Hank asks. His voice is soft.

“I don’t, really.” Connor doesn’t elaborate on the hour he spent in the bookstore downtown, agonising over what Hank might like. “I thought you might like it though.”

“ _Leaves of Grass_ ,” Hank’s fingers traces the book’s embossed front cover. “I know it well.”

“Oh. If you’ve read it before - I can take it back.”

“Absolutely not.” Hank shakes his head. “It’s perfect.”  
Hank takes a step closer to Connor, close enough that he would only have to extend his fingers and he could touch him.

Hank takes a deep breath. “ _Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me._ ”

The words still Connor to the core. Connor reaches out his hand, tentative, as if he fears he’s going to be rejected. He knows it’s stupid - the knot of nerves within his stomach pulls tight - they both know why he’s here, what he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past week. 

His hands find Hank’s sides, the swell of his belly beneath the bright patterned cotton of his shirt. At school, Hank opts for white button downs, perhaps a subtle print. But Connor likes this side of him, bold and brash. Confident. His powerful hands find Connor’s shoulders. 

“Thank you for inviting me,” he says, the pull of Hank’s hands moving him forward to close what little space is left between them. He smells good, oaky and dark. Connor thinks about burying his nose into the crook of Hank’s neck, breathing him in. He contents himself with pressing their chests together, both his hands wrapping around Hank’s back and gripping on to his shoulders.

“You’re welcome.” Hank replies, and each syllable in his deep voice resonates in waves through Connor. 

“You have an amazing voice.” The words are a fleeting thought that falls from Connor’s lips before he can stop himself. Hank looks down at him, an amused smile across his stupid, handsome face. In the low light, there’s a very sharp glint of blue in his eyes. 

“I have a what?”

Connor can feel his face growing hot. “You have a nice voice.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank tilts his head back ever so slightly, observes Connor down the straight line of his nose. “What’s so good about it?”

Connor swallows. He wracks his brains for something sweeter, weightier than just ‘nice’. Hank teaches words for a living, Connor knows that anything he conjures is going to pale against expectation.

“It’s deep and, um. It’s sexy and-“

Mercifully, he doesn’t need to continue. Hank kisses him, his arms right around Connor’s waist. Connor has never felt like a small man, but next to Hank he feels it, taken into these powerful arms and made delicate. 

Hank kisses slow, dedicated, as if this room, their embrace, is all that exists in the world. Connor feels a little whine escape from his lips when Hank pulls away. He notices Hank’s eyebrow raise.

“You’re better at that than you are with words,” Hank mutters, and Connor can feel the curve of his smiling mouth as he presses it against Connor’s own. “Thank god.”

“Did you kiss me just to shut me up?” Connor asks, but he’s smiling. He feels as though his chest is full of a clear, bright light.

“Absolutely not.” Hank kisses lips, his cheeks, the starmap of dark freckles beneath his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Connor thinks of the buttons of Hank’s shirt, how easily he could slide his fingers between them, push the garment off his shoulders and take and take. Of Hank’s belt, the buckle pressing into Connor’s hip. The click and flick of body-warm metal against his hands. 

But he opts for words instead: perhaps it is bravery, perhaps stupidity. He feels it a heady combination of the two. 

“I was nervous, today,” he confesses, his lips mouthing at the hot skin beneath Hank’s ear. “Thinking about you.”

“Nervous?” 

Connor nods. “Worrying about what to bring, what to wear.” His hands toy absentmindedly with the front of Hank’s shirt. He can hear his blood thrumming like the high tide in his head. “Whether to be late or early.”

Hank’s face softens. “Why?” Hank moves his hand from the lithe slip of Connor’s waist to cup his jaw. Connor takes a second to think, although really, really, he knows the answer. 

“I didn’t want to ruin anything.” The narrow, tender blooms of their relationship curl open in the palm of his hand. 

Hank makes Connor’s next slew of decisions for him. He begins to unbutton Connor’s shirt, right there in the cool, quiet living room. His skin is hot, and Hank’s fingers press rough into the heat of his chest.

“You’re here,” Hank murmurs. “You’re perfect.”

He feels wild and brave, taken suddenly by the steady weight of Hank’s hands at his chest. The press of his lips, the promise in his words that whatever Connor is doing, and whatever he does next, Hank will want it too. He tries to quell the high fluttering of his heart. He follows the buttons of Hank’s shirt, down to the thick, silver belt buckle that rests beneath the bulk of his belly. He’s never seen Hank wear a belt like this before. It’s brash, drawing the eye immediately, confidently downwards. Connor traces a path, at first with his finger - he can feel the hitch of Hank’s breath - and then with his mouth, lips drawn over the warm metal. Mouth pressed against the tightening denim of Hank’s jeans.

He kneels, his hands at the back of Hank’s thighs. 

“Is this what we’re doing, huh?” Hank’s voice has a slight cant to it, a shiver that tells Connor just how affected he is by all of this. Connor has the propensity to worry so much about himself that he forgets about others. He refocuses. He wants to make Hank feel good. 

“If you want.” Connor’s shirt hangs half off his shoulders. He can only imagine what he must look like from Hank’s angle. Debauched already, probably.

Hank gives a shuddering breath. “Go for it, darling.”

Darling. Connor’s heart skips a beat.

Connor pauses, considering. As much as he enjoys an expected pattern, solid and methodical, there is a lot to be said for the unexpected. 

Hank’s jeans fit him well, staggeringly so, tight over his legs and ass in a way that makes Connor’s mouth water. Tighter at the front, too, now that Connor is nestled between his thighs. He imagines how Hank must feel, growing achingly hard in the denim. Wanting to feel Connor’s hot mouth on him. 

So Connor leaves the buckle untouched, the straining zipper closed. Hank hisses above him as he presses his nose against the hard line of his arousal, his nose, his cheek and finally the flat of his tongue. 

At the hot press against the rough denim, Hank’s hand finds Connor’s hair, thick fingers sinking roughly into his curls. 

“Okay, baby,” Hank’s voice is gravelly with lust, already thick and deep with desperation. “Okay.” Perhaps he’s speaking more to control himself than to assuage Connor. 

Connor feels his own dick throb, and the shifting of silk and lace against it frustrating, frictionless. Connor licks a long, slow line from the crease of Hank’s thigh to his belt buckle, and above him, Hank shudders. 

Judging by the still growing outline, Hank is huge. God, he desperately wants to see, but there’s something delicious about having him gasping above him like this. With one hand, Connor rubs along the crotch seam of Hank’s jeans, a rough motion, applying a little pressure. 

The extra friction makes Hank moan and buck his hips against Connor’s face, one low, harsh expletive pulled from his lips. “Fuck! Connor...”

Connor smiles up at him, and for the first time, he sees Hank’s face - flushed, eyes dark. 

“Jesus Christ.” He moans again, one arm raising to cover his eyes. “You’re a fucking menace.” Hank sounds wrecked. Connor feels proud. 

He continues, pressing his tongue against Hank’s cock through the tight denim, over and over, letting his lips and cheeks press friction to the fabric. He knows from Hank’s noises above him, the fist in his hair, that it is maddening - not enough, and at the same time, too much. 

Hank groans from above him, his hand pulling Connor’s head away. 

“Okay, fuck. Stop, stop.” Connor lets himself be led, a little disappointed. He’d rather been looking forward to watching Hank shake apart beneath his ministrations. 

“You gotta stop,” Hank is practically panting. “I’m not gonna come in my pants the first time we do this. Christ.”

His hand loosens in Connor’s hair, and he gets to his feet, palming himself through his slacks. It does very little to sate the thrum of his arousal. 

“How do you wanna do this?” Hank asks.

“Fuck me,” Connor replies, and his voice sounds low and desperate to his own ears. “I want you to fuck me.” Hank takes a step closer. 

“I hoped you were going to say that,” he murmurs, his mouth against the line of Connor’s neck. “Goddamn.”

And suddenly his hand is in Connor’s, tugging him towards one of the rooms at the back of the house. His bedroom. If you’d told Connor four months ago that he’d see out the year in the bedroom of their handsome new English teacher, he wouldn’t have believed a word of it. 

But here he is. Hank’s bedroom. Surrounded by yet more books, an open wardrobe divided neatly into neat white and bright patterns. Connor could make a million hypotheses about a person from their living space, but right now? He finds himself a little preoccupied. 

“Sit down,” Hank says, and the words hover deliciously between a suggestion and a command. Connor does as he’s asked - told? - and sits on the edge of the bed, watching as Hank takes off his shoes and socks and unbuttons his shirt. 

His body is thick, sturdy, the great barrel of his chest and belly exactly what Connor has imagined when he’s alone in bed. Beneath his silver chest hair, a tattoo: a circle, cameo-like, a pair of wings. Connor wants to kiss every single faded line. 

When Hank is standing before him in just his jeans - belt discarded too - he regards Connor. Those heavy lidded eyes; a gaze like he could devour him. Connor’s done his teasing, he supposes. Now it’s his turn. 

“Undress for me,” Hank says, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Let me see you.”

Connor does, pale shirt, dark slacks, shoes and socks all coming to join Hank’s in the pile on the floor. He likes the sight of their clothes together. He could get used to it. 

Connor had chosen his panties on a whim, unsure whether Hank would like them, but hopeful that his gamble might pay off. They’re bottle green silk, edged in lace, jewel dark against his milky skin. 

From the hungry look in Hank’s eyes, it was worth taking the risk. 

“Oh. Connor, darling,” his fingers follow the lace trim, laying flat against his hip. The dark silk at the front where he’s already leaking, barely contained. “What are these?”

“They’re for you. I wore them for you.” Connor’s words stick slightly in his throat, as Hank’s mouth replaces his fingers, lips hot on Connor’s skin. 

Hank laughs at his response, the noise soft and irresistible. “Who dreamt you up, eh? How’d I get so lucky?”

Connor doesn’t respond, simply allows Hank to consider toying with the silk edge of his panties, tugging them tight against his skin. The sensation makes his head spin, his breath fast, all his blood focused to the point where Hank’s mouth is. 

“Pretty as they are,” Hank says, kissing up along Connor’s chest, his sternum, finding his mouth. “I think we should take them off.”

Connor nods. “Yes.”

Hank slides the panties over his thighs, past his knees. They join the rest of their clothes, wound together on the floor. Hank steps back to survey him, and the sound in his throat is a low growl.

“On your back. Let me see you properly.”

Connor lays back and suddenly Hank’s hands are on every inch of him, if that’s even possible. It seems it though, they’re in his hair, at his waist, between his legs. And his mouth follows, the delicious hot press of Hank’s tongue. 

Connor’s already teetering dangerously close to the edge, pulled close by the too too much of finally having Hank above him like this. 

But it’s over far too soon as Hank pauses, presses a final kiss to Connor’s lips, and is gone. “Hank?”

“I’m right here, baby. Hold on.” Connor can’t see exactly what Hank is doing, but there’s a rustle and a click and suddenly the warm slick press of Hank’s fingers between his legs. Connor’s hips buck wildly into the touch.

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you.”

Hank's hand rests on the flat of Connor's belly, holding him still as he shifts, trying to get some friction.

"Hank," Connor feels a little embarrassed at how wrecked his voice sounds, how desperate. "Please." 

Hank watches him, his gaze filled with something sweet, intangible. 

"You look so good," Hank murmurs, one slick finger sliding inside Connor. The pace is slow, punishing, not enough - but it's not long before he slides a second finger in alongside it, and Connor feels the glorious burn of being worked open. He's just about keeping it together. "Beautiful." 

Hank slides his fingers free and Connor moans into the emptiness, but Hank's hands are already at his calves, pulling them against his chest, pressing a kiss to the inside of his ankle. 

"It's okay, baby. You're good."

Hank starts in slow, shallow thrusts, and Connor is grateful for it. Hank's cock is thick, more than anything Connor has taken before - and he would be lying if he said he hadn't imagined this exact scenario already, roughly thrusting into his own fist, in his own bed. 

Hank doesn't allow the shallow thrusts to continue for much longer, instead pressing himself in deeper with each slide of his hips. He lowers himself between the V of Connor's thighs, big arms braced on either side of him. Connor's cock aches, hard and untouched on his stomach. 

"You're doing so well," Hank mutters, low in Connor's ear. He barely even realised that he had his eyes squeezed closed, head twisted away from the rumble of Hank's voice. "Taking me so prettily." 

Another slide of his hips, this time sharp, sudden, enough to make Connor cry out. Hank's cock drags, quick, electric, across that tight coil of nerves inside Connor, sending bright sparks through his whole torso.

"Fuck! Hank..." Connor's hips jerk up, seeking that same sensation, anything to loosen the knot of desire wound tightly behind his hips.

"That good, baby?"

“It’s good, Hank,” Connor gasps, leaning up to catch Hank’s mouth in a brief, messy kiss. The weight of Hank’s belly presses against his aching dick and Connor keens up into it, the friction blazing through him. He’s fucking close, if Hank would just keep-

But he doesn’t. 

He pulls away from Connor, shifts the weight of his body back and behind Connor’s thighs again. 

“Are you close?” Hank asks. Connor nods, desperate, one hand braced against Hank’s side, one reaching for his dick. 

“Think you can keep your hands on me?”

The pace of Hank’s hips slows, the press of his cock inside Connor making him see stars. He trusts Hank. He trusts his hands, the roll of his hips. 

He puts both his hands against Hank’s chest, catching his nipple between his thumb and finger. Hank’s mouth pulls into a snarl. “Yes.”

Hank grins. “Good.” And then, with a piston-sharp snap of his hips - “Fuck. Connor you feel so fucking good.”

Connor moans, unsure how he’s going to last for very much longer, even without his fist wrapped round himself. Hank moves at a punishing pace, each rock of his hips drawing a cry from Connor until he’s practically whimpering beneath him. 

Words spill from his lips but he can hardly identify them - Hank’s name, perhaps, over and over until it disappears into a new meaning. Where Connor can barely keep his eyes focused, Hank’s gaze is unrelenting, that steady blue that regards Connor as if he’s something uncountably precious, falling apart right beneath his hands.

“God,” his voice is low, reverent as prayer. “You’re incredible.”

Connor feels wound impossibly tight, his release frustratingly close, burning just out of his reach.

Hank’s hips begin to stutter, his movements becoming less consistent, less controlled.

“Baby. Baby.” Hank’s hand rests on Connor’s chest, rough and heavy. “Do you want me to come inside you?”

“Yes,” Connor doesn’t think he has ever wanted anything more. “God, yes.” 

Hank grins, that fantastic smile, slightly wonky, the gap in his two front teeth. His eyes are half-closed as he nears his climax, silvery grey tendrils of hair stuck to his temples. Connor crosses his ankles at the small of Hank’s back as he rocks his final few thrusts into him, coming with a rough, shaking groan, his hand right over Connor’s heart. 

The warm pulse of Hank filling him is enough to push Connor over the edge too, and he spills messily into his belly, cock untouched. He rides his orgasm out like the crest of a wave, his legs trembling, locked tight to keep Hank inside him. 

Hank’s name falls from his lips what seems like a hundred times over, and Hank lowers himself to meet him, to close the space between them and kiss his open mouth. He gathers Connor in his arms and holds him through the last shock rolling through him. 

He kisses his face, the bridge of his nose, beneath his chin.

“Wow.” Hank looks genuinely awed, his thumb stroking the high line of Connor’s cheekbone. “You’re something special, aren’t you?”

Connor says nothing. Words bubble inside him, a huge and glorious declaration, but he tamps them down. Another time. Another time, he hopes. 

Hank pulls out - much to Connor’s dismay - and gets a cloth to wipe them both clean. 

Under the covers, Connor rests his head against Hank’s chest, his fingers combing through his soft, silver hair there. Hank wraps his arm around Connor’s shoulder. He traces the faded line of Hank’s tattoo, and somewhere, far in the distance, comes the sound of fireworks. Connor thinks about the new year, about school. 

Mostly, mostly, he thinks about Hank. "Hank?" 

Hank cards his hand loosely through Connor's hair. "Mhm?"

"Tell me something about yourself."

Connor tilts his head to look up at Hank, and he can see that Hank is smiling at him - sweet, a little indulgent. 

"Something interesting, something boring. I don't care."

"Okay. I used to be a police officer - before I was a teacher."

"Really?" Connor imagines Hank in dress blues. It would be very flattering indeed.

"Yeah. Reckon I was better at that than teaching."

"I doubt that. What made you stop?"

"Cole." Hank shrugs loosely, and his voice fills suddenly with a warmth that Connor has never heard. "It was a dangerous job, especially in downtown Detroit. Thought I could do something more useful, something that wouldn't get me shot in an alleyway at three in the morning."

Connor nods, solemnly, although he has never had any experience with the world that Hank is talking about.

"What's Cole like?"

"Cole's great. Sweet. Smart. He's studying computer science in California - reckon he'll build the first robot that finally destroys the human race."

Hank says it flippantly, with a grin in his voice, but Connor tell that he is filled with real admiration for his son. Something like nerves comes to nestle in alongside his happiness.

As if Hank is reading his mind, he continues - "I can't wait for you to meet him."

Connor swallows. "Do you think he'll like me?"

"Honey," Hank's hand smoothes the hair at Connor's temple, tucking a curl in behind his ear. "How could he not?"

Connor shrugs, not entirely convinced. 

"Hey." Hank sits up straight, forcing Connor to move with him. They sit, facing each other. "You're good, Connor. You're kind, you're clever. You surprise me. You wear tiny silk panties on a first date."

Connor can't help but grin. "Maybe don't tell your son that last one."

Hank laughs, the sound bright in the quiet dark of the bedroom. He gathers Connor to him and presses kisses to his forehead, beneath his eyes - long and slow against his mouth. Connor melts into the touch.

"You wanna keep doing this next year?" Hank asks. 

Connor closes his eyes, his head resting in the slope of Hank's shoulder. "More than anything."

"Good."

More fireworks in the distance, shouts and screams of revelry. Connor can imagine nowhere in the world that he would rather be than here, in the bough of Hank's arms. 

He listens to Hank's breathing, to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. And he lets every bright new feeling bloom like a flower in the cavern of his ribs. There will be a time, he knows, when he can put them to words and share them with Hank. 

But for now? He lets the quiet speak for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and say hello on [twitter!](http://twitter.com/andpersephone)


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